I’ll only hate him more.
He makes no move toward me, but his voice is harsh as he says, “So why did you do it? Why warn me, Sara? You knew I wouldn’t leave you behind. And don’t give me that bullshit about not thinking straight. You knew full well what kind of risk you were taking. Why do it if you didn’t want to be with me?”
I drag in a shuddering breath and turn away, determined to control the tears that keep streaming down my face. The rage that filled me is dissipating, leaving me weary to the bone and hollow with despair. I want to stand my ground, deny what he’s saying, but I can’t. Maybe my thinking wasn’t as clear as it should’ve been, but I did know what I was doing.
I wasn’t surprised when the needle pricked my neck.
I feel Peter behind me, though I didn’t hear him move. “Tell me, ptichka.” His voice is soft again, his touch gentle as he clasps my shoulders, drawing me against his hard body. “Tell me why.” His stubble rasps across my cheek as he bends his head to kiss my temple, and I tense, fighting the urge to lean back against him and let him cuddle and caress me until I forget that I lost everything.
Until I no longer care that he took away my life.
Lifting his head, Peter turns me around to face him, his gray eyes peering at me intently, and I know he won’t let the matter drop. He won’t rest until I admit my weakness, that irrational, insane impulse that made me sabotage my chance at freedom.
I lick my lips, tasting the salt of my tears. “I…” I swallow thickly. “I didn’t want to see you dead.” Even now, the horrifying images won’t leave me, my brain visualizing how everything might’ve gone down in grisly detail. I can almost smell the coppery tang of blood as the SWAT team’s bullets rip through Peter’s muscled body, can almost see the armor-clad agents bursting through the bedroom door and dragging him off my bed.
Can almost feel the stark, crushing loneliness that would’ve been my life without my tormentor.
No. No, no, no. I shake off the thought, push it away like the lunacy that it is. I did not want this. Just because I missed Peter when he was on one of his assassination missions doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have moved on eventually. And it wasn’t even him I missed. It was the deceptive comfort he provided, the illusion of love and caring. What I felt for him wasn’t real, and neither is what he thinks he feels for me. A sick lie is all it’s ever been between us, a pathological obsession on his end and an equally perverse neediness on mine.
Peter’s eyes narrow, his hands tightening on my shoulders as he processes what I said. “So you warned me out of the goodness of your heart? You were being a Good Samaritan?”
I nod, blinking rapidly to hold back a fresh wave of tears. That wasn’t the only reason for my lapse of judgment, but it’s the only one I’m willing to admit to.
My captor’s face hardens, and he drops his hands, stepping back. “I see.”
If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought I hurt him.
In the next instant, however, he continues as if nothing happened. “This is our bedroom.” His voice is cold and flat, utterly emotionless. “The bathroom is through there.” He gestures at a door in the back of the room. “You can wash up and relax while we unpack some supplies and prepare breakfast. I’ll have clothes brought here for you tomorrow, but in the meantime, there should be a robe in the bathroom and some of my clothes in the closet.” He nods toward a set of doors on the opposite side of the room. “If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs. Breakfast will be ready in a half hour.”
I bite my lip. “Okay, thanks.”
He exits the room, and I walk over to the window, my chest aching with grief for everything I lost—and for what I just glimpsed in Peter’s eyes.
Pain.
I did hurt him, and for some reason, that hurts me.
6
Peter
“She’s not happy, huh?” Anton says quietly in Russian as I take out an oversized carton of eggs he just loaded into the fridge, set it on the counter next to the stovetop, and begin hunting for a frying pan.
“No.” I barely restrain myself from slamming the cupboard door when I don’t find the frying pan there. “But she’ll get used to it.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
I finally locate the pan in one of the pull-out drawers by the stove. “Then she’ll stay fucking miserable.” Grabbing the pan, I shove the drawer shut, then curse myself when I see a hairline crack appear in the glossy white wood. Renovating the house one helicopter load at a time was a bitch, and I can’t afford to vent my anger on the kitchen counters. Anton’s face at training later today will be a much better target.